


i'll be yours forever (you know i'm down for whatever)

by hoko_onchi



Series: Lives Well Lived [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hippie Swinger Dads, Just plain filth, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: Eliot and Quentin are happy and in love, living at the mosaic. Eliot proposes a threesome with the hot cobbler in town for Quentin's thirty-seventh birthday. Quentin graciously accepts. What follows is... absolutely shameless smut.This plot bunny (smut bunny) wouldn't get out of my head. It was inspired by several fics in the fandom. Also, one of my delightful Queliot friends described these two as "hippie swinger dads" upon posting the pic of Quentin and Eliot sending Teddy off on his travel. Guess that didn't leave my mind.This is like, real dirty. I'm sorry/you're welcome.I may make a series of Mosaic one-shots. Keep your eyes open for more as I work along on my longer fics.Yep, the title is from a song by Kesha.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Lives Well Lived [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842493
Comments: 34
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

~Quentin~

“I’ve got—um—cheese and cream from Mira and rhubarb from the guy with the hair—”

“Kael.”

“Yeah, the guy with the plant name.” Quentin pushed the stray lock of hair that’s been falling in his face back behind his ear. Again. He had cut his hair back to shoulder length a little over a month ago, and it kept falling in his face when when he leaned forward, even when he had it in a bun. It was driving him insane; he never should have goddamn cut it. But Eliot loved it this length. He said it reminded him of when they first came to Fillory. Quentin wasn’t sure why Eliot would _want_ to remember much about those years. El put rose-colored glasses when he looked back, like he didn’t remember the knock-down, drag-out fights where he pushed Quentin away, or the way Quentin would shut down, refuse to get out of bed for days at a time. And he never mentioned how they danced around each other that second and third year when Quentin had started to realize he was madly, irreversibly in love with Eliot but never said a word about it. He conveniently forgot, too, how he pushed Quentin into Arielle’s arms, and how everything had fallen apart once Quentin and Eliot started sleeping together again. 

It wasn’t so much the sex as Ari’s realization that it wasn’t _just_ sex. It was how Quentin had moped and withdrawn whenever Eliot stayed in the village for a few days because he knew exactly what Eliot was doing. It was how he started spending half his nights in the daybed with El because he wanted to wake up next to him. It had been, she told him after it was all over, the way he looked at Eliot, the way Eliot looked at him. Quentin didn’t know exactly what she meant since he wasn’t on the outside looking in, but he knew how he _felt_ when he looked at Eliot, so he could kind of imagine. He’d thought he looked at Ari the same way, but maybe he didn’t. Or maybe it hadn’t been enough. 

She’d left them with a note letting Quentin know she was tired of being second best. He hadn’t meant to make her second best, but he guessed she was probably right. He’d been so surprised and so stricken because this wasn’t how things were _supposed_ to go in Fillory. People had open marriages more often than not. Three people living together wasn’t an anomaly. It seemed unfathomable that Quentin could fuck up a marriage when he was in love and doing all of the ‘right’ things—being honest about what he needed, doling out his love in equal measure. There was a part of him that knew that Eliot felt like forever, felt like home. He dwelled on it less these days, the fact that he’d ruined two relationships by falling into bed with Eliot. It had been inevitable, he’d concluded. There was nothing else like Eliot in the known world, neither in Fillory or on earth. 

“We’ve only been going to him for produce for the past decade,” Eliot said. “Why on Earth would you remember his actual name?” 

Quentin shrugged. He was looking at the polished wood birdhouses at one of the market stands. He’d worked with one of the women who ran the stand on creating some binding potion that would make the houses stay together indefinitely. He didn’t remember her name either. “He’s not memorable.” 

“I think he’s memorable. Such nice farmer’s hands. All calloused from a hard day’s work. So rugged, too.” 

Quentin looked up and scowled at him. Eliot was wearing a wicked little smile, arms laden with cloth bags, full of meats and vegetables and soaps. There was a hint of silver in his dark hair, and he looked about fifty times as handsome at thirty-eight than he did when Quentin met him that hot summer day at Brakebills. If someone had told him that day that Eliot would become more beautiful with every passing year, he would have told them to get the fuck out of town. It was unfair; impossible. “You’re really, actually trying to make me jealous. It’s not going to work.”

“It worked,” Eliot said primly. “You’re adorable, darling. Do we need cloudberries? Blackberries? Teddy’s been eating them by the bucketful. Coming up on a growth spurt.” 

“We can stop back by the market when we pick him up from Ari. She has him until the end of next week.” Quentin gave the birdhouse woman a wave and moved to the next stall, where Eliot was looking over fruits. 

It was a blessing that custody battles weren’t a thing in Fillory. If a marriage ended, childcare was a fifty-fifty split by law. The only issues came if one parent disagreed, but neither had. Teddy got his entire family, traveling back and forth between houses a few miles apart. They’d all settled into the arrangement, and Teddy had thrived. The biting sharpness of the grief Quentin had felt had faded with time. And, well. He and Eliot had actually done the thing and gotten married the summer after Teddy had turned six. It was a quiet, peaceful gathering, and Eliot had been so thoroughly unlike the original Eliot that Quentin had gotten to know at Brakebills. He had just been happy, plain and simple. Calm. He hadn’t turned into the groomzilla Quentin had encountered in Castle Whitespire, and he hadn’t pushed Quentin away, not like he had in the early years when they started sleeping together regularly. Quentin hated to admit that he couldn’t seem to make a relationship work with anyone but Eliot, but maybe that’s how it was with people who ended up with one great love. Every other relationship faded besides the one that didn’t. 

Eliot took his hand as they walked down the wide aisle of the open-air market, leaning down and kissing Quentin’s cheek as they made their way to the edge of the market. It was nice—good, he thought. Different than Eliot would have been with Quentin had they started their relationship on Earth. In Fillory, the ghosts of Eliot’s past didn’t have nearly as much weight. 

“Quentin! Eliot, come look,” a deep voice called. Quentin looked ahead to see the cobbler waving them over. Eliot elbowed Quentin and smirked as Quentin’s cheeks started to turn bright red. 

“Oh my God, stop,” Quentin said. “Stop it.”

“Absolutely not. I’m right, by the way.”

“You’re _not_.”

“Am too.” Eliot leaned down and brushed Quentin’s hair back behind his ear again. “He wants to fuck you.”

Quentin’s stomach did a somersault. “Milo doesn’t want—”

“You remember his name,” Eliot said, pulling Quentin in the direction of the cobbler’s stand. 

“He’s our friend.” Milo was kind and funny—he’d come to the village from a small town near Whitespire, and he’d set up his shop in the village, a booth at the market. He always had a few books in his shop, and he liked to talk with Quentin about Fillorian adventure novels. He was well traveled and thoughtful, and somehow, Quentin had fallen into helping him rebuild the old store that now served as Milo’s workshop. He came up to the cottage every month or so to have dinner and sit out by their fire pit, telling stories late into the night. And yeah, maybe he was _partial_ to Quentin, but it was because they talked. They had things in common. He loved to see Quentin do magic, and maybe his eyes were a little intense any time he finished even the simplest of tuts. Perhaps he was a little flirtatious, _occasionally_ , complimenting Quentin’s hair or weirdly, one time, his eyes. And he was, okay, really fucking attractive.

“He’s our friend who wants to get his dick in you.” Eliot let go of Quentin’s hand and slipped his arm around his waist, dropping his hand and squeezing Quentin’s ass. “Can’t say I blame him. If I were a cobbler, I’d want to fuck you.”

“Jesus.” Quentin was thirty-six years old, nearly thirty-seven, and he was _bright red_. Eliot was leading him toward Milo’s booth. His whole body felt hot, and a twist of shame and aimless desire mixed together in his core, the strange way he always felt when Eliot teased him or tried to drum up information on Quentin’s fantasies. This was… both. He gulped when Milo came into view. He was… tall. Not quite as tall as Eliot, but a bit broader through the shoulders and chest. He had that narrow hip, nice ass combo thing that Quentin was insane for, and possibly more insane for the longer he lived with Eliot. And he had huge hands, long fingers, skilled and strong from working with leather since he was in his teens. And he was… well, he was young. Younger. A little over ten years younger than Quentin. He had deep chestnut hair cut short, a close-cropped russet beard and deep blue eyes that crinkled up when he smiled. And he did smile at Quentin. A lot. It was unnerving. Occasionally. Only occasionally.

Eliot thought Milo had _noticed_ Quentin as soon as he moved into town. Eliot insisted that that was _why_ Milo had solicited Quentin’s help with the storefront. And Eliot thought it was a _delight_. And it sort of turned Eliot on? He’d gotten over Eliot being a total weirdo years and years ago. This was just another drop in the bucket. Quentin was weird, too. Just in different, but he felt, complementary, ways. 

Eliot slung his arm around Quentin’s waist, drawing him in close when they got to Milo’s booth. “Hello Milo,” Eliot said in an almost suggestive way. It wasn’t quite bordering on inappropriate, but Quentin really felt like it was pretty fucking close, with Milo looking at him and Eliot’s hand slipping down over Quentin’s lower back. “You’ve added some bags to your shop. Quentin loves a good messenger bag.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I haven’t carried a messenger bag in eleven years.” It was true. He had a leather backpack instead. And yes, he’d gotten it from Milo. And no, Milo didn’t tan the hides of sentient animals. It was ethical leatherwork. Well, ethical for Fillory, anyway.

“I did add some bags,” Milo said brightly. He was a leather craftsman and tanner as well as a cobbler, selling all sorts of supplies and some of his own creations—workman’s bags, pouches for coins, thin leather sun hats, shoes made from scratch according to Milo’s own design. “I have a new style I’ve been working on. I think you’ll like it—all sorts of compartments for storage. Good for traveling And we have a cape from the wool my sisters make—hidden pockets in the lining—” 

Quentin just watched as Eliot talked to Milo, inspecting the new loafer-like shoe and a few of the bags, long fingers running over the wool of the stunning gray cape that Quentin was about a thousand percent sure Eliot was going to buy, all the while informing Milo of their needs for shoes come autumn and handing off the pair of boots Quentin needed mended. There was zero way Quentin could focus now, not with what Eliot had said, and not with Eliot’s hand tugging at his waistband on the linen pants Eliot had given him for their anniversary. Instead, Quentin let his eyes roam over Milo’s hands, his muscular forearms, speckled with copper-tinged hair. He was so _masculine_ but still sort of divinely beautiful, with his neat-trimmed beard and well-kept hair. God, he must be _strong_. And so talented with his hands, deft and sure and skilled. And well. Fuck, Quentin really had a _type_ , didn’t he? Eliot was the living definition of the type. Milo was a close runner up.

“… and he’ll be thirty-seven next week.” 

“Me?” Quentin caught Milo’s eye. Milo smiled at him, mischievous, eyes sparkling. Eliot slipped his hand down over Quentin’s ass and held it there, which was. Not helpful. At all. 

“A happy occasion,” Milo said. “Will you be celebrating with a gathering?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Eliot said, coy, hand still on Quentin’s _ass_. “Quentin would rather be with a select few people rather than a whole crowd. If you know what I mean.”

“I believe I do,” he said, smiling. “I’m not much of one for festivals and the like. Unless it involves leather.”

“Oh, I do know what you mean. Who doesn’t like a good party filled with leather?”

Quentin coughed, nearly choking on nothing. Nothing. God, _Eliot_ was the worst person on Earth. Fillory. Either place. 

“Do you need a glass of water, Quentin?” Milo looked at him, so earnest. One of Eliot’s hobbies was making jokes that Fillorians had no context for understanding. 

“Oh, nope. I’m—I am um. Totally fine.” He whacked his hand on his chest once. 

“I have one of the books that you like in my cart—let me find it for you. I don’t think you have this one. And—a surprise.” Milo grinned so hard that Quentin could hardly see his eyes. When he turned away and walked to the back of his booth, Quentin’s eyes flicked down to his ass. It was round and firm, filling out his tight Fillorian linen trousers. 

Eliot leaned down, his breath hot against Quentin’s ear. “You don’t see how he wants you, but I do.” Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. He didn’t stop when Milo turned around. “He knows how good you’d be.”

“This one kept me up all night,” he said, handing a book to Quentin, apparently ignoring his husband’s tongue _in his ear_. “ _The Heartwood Voyage_. Emrys is a pirate with a fleet of bunnies—but he’s handsome and good-hearted, and he reminded me of you.” Oh, _God_. Quentin was never going to live this down. Eliot’s low laugh rumbled in his ear. 

“Oh, uh. Wow. Um, thank you, Milo.” Quentin looked through the dogeared tome, running his fingers over the detailed illustrations printed on the thin pages. 

“And—for Teddy. We have some books from Children of Earth circulating in the shops—from travelers, you know.” Milo handed Quentin three books: _David Copperfield_ by Charles Dickens, _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ by L. Frank Baum, and _The Time Machine_ by H.G. Wells. “For learning of his heritage.”

“Wow. How did you—” Quentin looked at him, wide-eyed. “I’ve been collecting any books from Earth that I could find for the better part of the past—fucking—decade, and I haven’t found _anything_ like this. These are in beautiful condition—just exquisite.” He ran his fingers over the embossed illustration of Oz, flipped through its pages reverently.

Eliot made appropriate cooing noises over the books and patted Quentin’s hand, leaned down to kiss him on the cheek—pointedly, Quentin thought. 

“I have connections in the towns I used to travel between. I collected these when I headed out to my sisters’ farm last month.”

“How much do we owe you?”

“It’s your birthday. You’re my best customers. And my favorite. They’re included with Eliot’s cape.” He winked at Quentin.

Eliot laughed. “You know me too well. Maybe you’d like to stop by later this week for Q’s birthday. Not a big gathering, I assure you. And yes—I’ll take that cape. I have a thing for dramatic outerwear and hidden pockets.” 

Eliot’s smile was wide when they left for home, his hand tucked in Quentin’s back pocket, his cape and bags hanging off of his free arm. 

***

Eliot followed his normal routine when he got home—putting away their purchases and casting cooling spells on the produce and meats, checking their bread dough for the day and sweeping out the kitchen. Quentin glanced over at him every now and again, just to watch him cast or knead the dough. It was still, like, super hot that Eliot just knew how to do so many things, how easily he took care of Quentin and Teddy—who wanted to go by _Theo_ now. Quentin would never get used to it. Eliot started slicing squash and a zucchini-like vegetable called a _crumden_ for their dinner, singing Gershwin tunes to himself, and Quentin smiled, setting up his purchases at his work table. He was, perhaps, the luckiest man in Fillory.

Quentin put on the glasses he’d adapted for working with detailed magic and settled into mending a few gadgets he’d picked up from the tinker’s cart at the market—a compass, a watch that must have come from Earth at some point, a pair of reading spectacles that he could adapt for Eliot, and a set of six metal rings that Quentin thought might contain some kind of magic. One of them was broken, but he was fairly certain he could mend the rings and resell them. He was doing a diagnostic reading on the rings when he noticed Eliot watching him from the kitchen. It was that wolffish, appraising look that still made Quentin’s stomach dive and swoop, even after eleven years. It meant Eliot was _scheming_. And Teddy— _Theo_ —was away, which meant that it might be... interesting. More interesting than usual. He lowered his glasses and looked back over his shoulder at Eliot. “What?”

“Nothing.” Eliot gave him a clipped smile, which let Quentin know it was _not_ nothing. “Stew will be ready soon.” 

Quentin really couldn’t focus after that. His mind kept wandering to all the surprises Eliot had planned for Quentin. Leather restraints, supple and strong, that he’d had made in the next town over. A variety of toys he’d created from polished wood and solid pieces of blown glass, all so beautiful. And in the days before Arielle, they’d bring home, occasionally, a traveler passing through the village. The early years of Teddy’s life hadn’t been terribly conducive to a lot of experimentation, but now… Teddy was ten, and he stayed with Ari and his grandparents nearly half the time. And Eliot… Eliot was settling into their marriage, like he believed, finally, that he got to have this. He had started trust Quentin the same way Quentin trusted him. It was, Quentin knew, a pretty big fucking deal for Eliot.

Quentin squirmed under Eliot’s gaze. “Seriously, what?”

Eliot tapped his finger on the cutting board, pausing his chopping for a moment. “Do you remember Rowen?”

“Who?”

“Lumberjack.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Rowen had been the first traveler Eliot had brought home, in the days when Eliot and Quentin were young and deeply foolish, when their relationship was fraught and painful for both of them. The travelers—the guest appearances in their bed—had been fun, really. And Eliot hadn’t _talked about it_ with Quentin before he brought the first one, Rowen, back to the cottage. He’d just shown up with this super hot guy who had started making out with Eliot after the three of them had shared a bottle of blackberry wine. Quentin was absolutely _livid_ , nearly stumbling off into the woods in a blind rage until Eliot made it clear that this was like—an activity? For both of them. It was so weird. And so hot. And it had happened a few other times, but really, not much after that. 

When Arielle became a fixture in their lives, it was Quentin and Arielle, and then it was Quentin and Arielle and Quentin and Eliot. (And only very seldom, Quentin and Arielle and Eliot. That was blazingly hot. But—not as… healthy for Arielle as he thought.) Quentin could see he was the one getting the best part of that whole deal. It was a wonder Eliot hadn’t fucked off to the village forever. He guessed… well, the quest. But Eliot could have easily moved to one of the apartments over the tavern and traveled up to the mosaic each day. It was a fifteen minute walk. But, no. Eliot had stayed through it all—through his marriage to Arielle, through Teddy’s colic and teething and toddler years, through Teddy’s insane and destructive talent for physical magic, through the jealousy that Arielle had held close to her chest for so long, through Quentin’s grief when she left.

And eighteen months after she left, Eliot had proposed. He’d asked Quentin at night, sitting in the mild of the mosaic, wrapped in their patchwork quilt. It was calm and measured and weirdly pragmatic. ( _“I love you—we should make it official. I want you to know that I’ll always be here.”_. Quentin had sobbed when he produced the polished wooden ring, enchanted to stay solid forever.) They were married. He’d become something more than Quentin had ever expected—not that Quentin hadn’t _wanted_ those things of Eliot. He just had never thought Eliot wanted marriage or parenthood or simple, everyday mundanity with _anyone,_ least of all with Quentin. Sometimes it still staggered him, made his chest seize up tight. Even if they were far away from all that they’d known, they’d built something invaluable.

“I was just thinking… what if we do something like that again?” Eliot asked, his tone even. 

Quentin’s heart was pounding wildly. “You mean? Like?”

“You and me and a cute boy? This time, I could actually warn you first. Though I admit, just bringing someone up here for your birthday as a total surprise has its appeals.”

“I’d go the fuck back to Earth. No warning,” Quentin said, but he didn’t mean it. Half the time—maybe more than half—he found he didn’t _want_ to solve the puzzle, not if it meant leaving what they had here. He wasn’t sure Eliot would want him, not like _this_ , if they were back in their old lives. And life without Eliot by his side was unimaginable. And Teddy on Earth… that’s not where Teddy was born. It wasn’t his home. Quentin hoped he never had to deal with such impossible things. Life was simpler right here. They didn’t speak about it, but there was a tacit understanding that they didn’t work as hard on the mosaic the days that Teddy was away, completing a pattern every few days rather than every day. Neither of them could bear the thought of solving it and being somehow sucked back into their own timeline without Teddy nearby. Quentin was, and he hadn’t discussed it with Eliot, pretty sure he’d get the key to the questers somehow and just stay here. He didn’t need to be a hero as much as he needed _this_.

Eliot smirked. “I’m telling you right now so we can discuss this like rational adults—”

Quentin’s hands twitched, his heart pounding wildly. This was hot but. Was it something else? What was this, exactly? “Uh. Is there something I’m not doing—or—or—are you wanting something else?”

“No, baby.” Eliot closed the space between them and knelt down on the battered wood floor by his work bench. He took Quentin’s face in his hands, looking up at him with sincerity, with love. It was _so much_. Eliot was always… so much. “It’s your birthday week—”

“I’m not ten. That’s not a thing—”

“It is if I say it is.” He pushed up and kissed Quentin lightly on the lips. “You like trying new things. This is a new thing.”

“I mean, not entirely. It’s like. Not entirely a new thing.” 

“It is, though. We’re different than we were back then. With something like this, we’d set boundaries and talk a lot before it happened. It wouldn’t be—” Eliot looked like he was searching for something, a pained expression crossing his face. “Hm. It wouldn’t be… me showing off.”

“Oh, so you like to show off,” Quentin said, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“You’re on thin ice, Coldwater.” 

“Thought you said it’s my birthday week. I can do what I want.” Quentin pushed the spectacles up his nose, fiddled with his hair and tucked it back behind his ear. Eliot’s eyes were locked on him.

“Oh yeah? I was telling you about a… _plan_ I had in mind that I thought you might enjoy—for your birthday. For fun. For _you_.”

Quentin took a deep breath, trying to clear his head of the images that were popping up, unbidden. “Let’s rewind. Where did this come from?” 

“You look so gorgeous when you blush.” Eliot brushed his thumb over Quentin’s cheekbone. He knew he was already flushed pink. 

“El, c’mon. There’s gotta be a reason—ah!” Quentin gasped as Eliot pulled him down off of his work bench and onto his lap, drawing him into a slow, searching kiss, his strong hand taking its place at the back of his neck. Just like that first time. Just where it belonged. He took off Quentin’s glasses, raked his fingers through Quentin’s hair and mussed it, kissing him deep and hard.

Eliot’s lips were pink and wet and tempting when he pulled away, and he gave Quentin that adoring look that utterly _baffled_ him. “The reason is—” Eliot kissed him again, quick this time. “—that I love you. I want to spoil you. Selfishly, I want to see you fuck someone else. Someone who’s not—messily entangled in our lives.”

Quentin swallowed hard. It had been good for a while, him and Eliot and Ari, even after he’d fallen into bed with Eliot again about three months after they were married. But. Yeah—messy.

“Why would you—why would I—” Quentin stopped. His pulse was running fast, and Eliot had lifted his shirt, his hands roaming, gentle, over Quentin’s ribs. He took a steadying breath. “Tell me again. Tell me why.”

“I think you deserve everything. You deserve to have an uncomplicated experience. Something… a little wild while we can still get it up.”

“We don’t have any problems in the, um, getting it up department.” Quentin felt buzzy in that nervous-but-thrilled way he felt when Eliot started to push him. 

“No, not yet.” He nibbled at Quentin’s ear and brushed his hair back over his shoulder. It fell back in his face. He was going to have to grow it out again.

“But you want to do this—”

“I do. _With_ you.” Eliot petted at the lines of Quentin’s back, down over the tense muscles in his shoulders to his lower back and back up again. “Let me be perfectly clear—you’re the one person I want to be with for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah—I mean.” Quentin’s eyes darted to the side. “Me too.”

“Q, I mean it. The long haul. You know that.”

“Okay.” Quentin bit at his lip. 

“But other people can be fun. In the right circumstances. With lots of talking beforehand. With me not being reckless and awful—”

Quentin quirked his brows together. “You were never awful. We were so young, El. Even with Ari, we just… we didn’t know anything.”

“That’s my point, darling. We’re older and arguably… somewhat wiser. And I’d love to see you very thoroughly fucked for your birthday. Are you interested in hearing more about that?”

Quentin paused, watching Eliot’s face for a drawn-out moment. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I am. I’m—open to it.” His body was _definitely_ interested. 

“Well,” Eliot started, his expression keen and teasing, “I’d love to watch you get fucked while I put my cock in your pretty mouth. Would you like that?”

Quentin made an embarrassing little sound and snuggled in closer to Eliot. Eliot presses his lips to Quentin’s neck and sucked so hard he knew it would bruise. “Ah. Yeah? Yeah… I think.”

“I have a spell I’ve been working on that should let us come multiple times in the space of a few hours. Basically no refractory period.”

“We’ve done that before—”

“Not like this.” Eliot gave him a very pleased grin. “I added onto that one—this’ll add increased sensitivity and endurance.”

“You combined the two spells… That’s so clever, El. We could never get them to work together before.” Quentin kissed along Eliot’s jaw, his cock growing hard just thinking about the idea. Eliot was just… so fucking talented at everything. He was stealthily good at meta-comp, especially when it came to sex magic. That was on brand. And… it was hot. Fuck, it was _so hot._

“Mm, that’s what turns you on?” Eliot laughed. “Me, staying up late and working on complex casting by candlelight.”

“God, yes. But y’know. Tell me more about what we do with that...”

“Hmm. So much. I wanna watch you fuck another guy, get rough like you do sometimes. I’d like to blow you while he watches, have you come on my face...” 

He settled his head against Eliot’s shoulder and twisted his fingers in Eliot’s hair. He smelled like campfire smoke and fresh laundry, wrung out in river water and hung to dry. He listened to Eliot talk, telling him about their hypothetical encounter in… astounding detail. Clearly he’d been thinking about this for a while. Quentin squirmed in his lap—fuck, he was… really hard. This was almost—overwhelming. But he didn’t want it to stop. He could stay like this forever, just on the edge of too far, with Eliot holding him, and he’d be in absolute bliss.

“And this someone else is?” Quentin asked when Eliot paused. Quentin was a hundred percent sure he knew the answer. And deeply perplexed about how Eliot thought he was going to pull this off. 

“Milo.” Eliot nipped at Quentin’s neck. “He wants you so goddamn bad, and I can’t stop thinking about how he looks at you, baby. It drives me wild.”

Quentin was... well. At the edge of really needing to touch his dick. And maybe trembling a little. “He doesn’t—he’s not. He has a fiancée!” 

“Apparently, she doesn’t mind at all,” Eliot said, voice low. “She thinks it’s sweet. Thinks he ought to do what he wants. He told me she thought it was _hot_ —his interest in you. He tells her about you, you know. How he wants to—”

“You—you already—”

“I talked to him after you went to the candlemaker.”

“Oh my God.” Quentin’s cheeks were throbbing with heat. “I can’t believe you. You’re the worst person in existence.”

“He was adequately… interested in the idea.” Eliot put his lips to Quentin’s ear. “When I really got him talking, he told me he’s been jerking off thinking about you for the past year. He just thinks you’re fucking beautiful. Thinks you and I are incredibly hot together. He’s not wrong about any of that.”

“El,” Quentin whispered. “Fuck. That’s… insane. I was at the candle booth for like ten minutes.”

“And then you got distracted by your books.”

Quentin smiled. “Yeah, I did. That was sweet. That he did that for me. The books.”

“He’s got the biggest crush on you. I knew I was right. I invited him to come up for dinner the night before your birthday. I can call it off if you’re not interested. Any time up until right before he’s supposed to arrive. Up to you.”

“El. Oh, my God.”

“You love that idea, don’t you, baby? I thought you would.” He grabbed a fistful of Quentin’s hair and tugged it back, exposing his neck. Eliot licked at the skin below his jawline, running his lips over Quentin’s stubble. Letting out a sharp breath, he drew Quentin in closer so that Quentin could feel the outline of his hard cock. “I love you so much, baby. Just wanna give you all the attention you deserve, have everything focused on you.”

It devolved from there, as their conversations about sex often did. And this was even better than usual. For one, they’d had to be creative with Teddy living at the cottage most of the time, casting a makeshift silencing bubble over the daybed, complete with a false image that obscured views of the bed in all directions. The timing had to be right, too—not too early in the evening, or Teddy was likely to wake up; not too late in the morning, or Teddy would come and find them, break their wards, and start asking them streams of questions about airplanes, his latest obsession. (Quentin was always amazed at his son’s natural ability with magic—the casual way he could break just about any blocking spell he or Eliot put up, the easy way he transformed and created things from wood and clay. He’d be a physical kid, through and through. It pained him, sometimes deeply, that Teddy would never follow a fluttering piece of paper onto the campus of Brakebills. It was worse that Ted Coldwater would never know how much Teddy— _Theo_ —loved planes).

But now. Now, Ari’s family had Teddy for the next ten days. And this wasn’t a hypothetical ‘wouldn’t it be hot’ kind of chat, surreptitiously whispered so that Teddy couldn’t hear; it was a ‘I’m making this happen’ kind of chat. And Eliot expanded on his _idea_ , describing increasingly filthy scenarios while running his hands over Quentin’s body and pulling off his clothes, piece by piece until he was naked in Eliot’s lap, trembling and chasing after Eliot’s mouth while attempting to rip off his shirt.

“Hands to yourself,” Eliot murmured. “This is my nice shirt. For going to the market.”

“None of our shirts are nice, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Quentin said, and maybe he was intentionally being a bit tetchy. Because Eliot _liked it_ , and Quentin knew it. “So that’s not a nice shirt.”

Eliot did a quick tut that released all of his buttons, showing the expanse of pale skin and the ripples of dark chest hair that Quentin fucking _loved_. “Yes, dear. Of the shirts I own, however, this is _the_ nice one. I do need it for our date with Milo.”

Quentin buried his face against Eliot’s neck. He knew he was sort of vibrating, his palms sweating, his cock _aching_ hard, throbbing and leaking at the tip. He whimpered against Eliot’s neck, lips pressed to his skin. He wanted—he needed—everything from him. Eliot had started it, hadn’t he? He’d gotten Quentin in this frantic state, which was fucking… _humiliating_ since he was almost _middle-aged_ , for fuck’s sake. But he could barely form words. Instead he curled his fingers in Eliot’s hair, his body prickling all over to the point that he was shaking. Eliot had a way of doing that—of making him feel like it was the first night he kissed him, sitting next to him on the mosaic, heart pounding and body full of bubbly, nervous energy. Now, Eliot’s hands ran over his sides, his arms, soothing him. 

When Eliot spoke, his voice was gentle in Quentin’s ear. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

Quentin sighed, breathing out against Eliot’s skin. “However you want,” Quentin mumbled. 

“What was that, my love? I didn’t hear you. Speak up.”

He was such a _shit_. “Take me,” Quentin said clearly, head still down against Eliot’s shoulder, “to bed. And do what you want with me. Just fucking get me off.”

Eliot made a pleased hum, and Quentin _despised_ him. He felt the familiar weight of Eliot’s magic, sharp and clear, with a taste on the back of his tongue like lemon and cardamom. His hands were moving, tucked behind Quentin’s back, and the firm grip of telekinesis took his weight as Eliot got one one knee and lifted Quentin to carry him across to their bed at the other end of the cottage. Early on at the mosaic—before their kiss on that fated one-year anniversary—Eliot had enchanted the tiny bed that lived in the ramshackle little hut to be a queen size. Over the years, Eliot had continued to work on expanding the cottage, adding spells to make the interior more spacious than the original layout belied. Now, the bed was closer to a king—probably a bit too big for their space, but they’d tucked it neatly into a spell-widened window nook. 

Eliot laid him out on the bed on his back; Quentin’s cock was throbbing almost visibly, red and slick with precome, leaking against his abdomen. Quentin let out a low groan, his body arching up, as Eliot gazed at him in fucking— _amusement_? But he was shucking off his trousers and crawling over Quentin on the bed, gentling him with soft pats and kissing over his chest, licking and biting at his nipples and hovering over Quentin’s dick, barely grazing against him when he moved. Quentin was babbling and pleading by the time Eliot had lowered himself onto Quentin’s cock, spell-slicked and ready, sighing and praising Quentin for his _perfect dick_ and placing Quentin’s hands on his hips. Eliot stroked himself to hardness as he began to roll his hips, his thick cock bobbing as he rode Quentin. Eliot told him how gorgeous he was, how good and sweet he was for Eliot, how he took care of him and gave him everything he needed. Quentin blanked out at some point, body arching up and working of its own accord, his mind floating and focusing in and out on the tight heat of Eliot surrounding him, the pressure building in the cradle of his hips, low and tight in his balls. He vaguely felt Eliot speed up, and all at once, the wave of pleasure crested and he came, bucking hard and pulsing deep inside of his husband.

The next thing Quentin knew, Eliot had moved up on the bed and performed the little cantrip that dampened Quentin’s gag reflex, and he was slipping his cock between Quentin’s welcoming lips, nudging against his tongue. He fucked Quentin’s mouth slowly, groaning long and loud, hands tangled in Quentin’s hair as he gasped out tender endearments and took what he so desperately needed with torturously slow, steady strokes. When Eliot finally came, he pulsed down Quentin’s throat for a long time, grunting and pulling hard at Quentin’s hair as he groaned around Eliot’s cock. He tasted so amazing and felt so full and hard and heavy in Quentin’s mouth. Quentin felt the loss with a pang as Eliot pulled away, hissing and oversensitive.

Eliot held him close and kissed him as they lay splayed out on the bed, naked and lazy, as dimming light filtered in from outside. It felt decadent, like eating brownies for dinner which, come to think of it, sounded like an _amazing_ idea, except for the part where Fillory didn’t have chocolate. A plum pie with Eliot’s latticework or a cloudberry tartlet made with the rich goat cheese from the market… that would make a _great_ dinner. It was his birthday week. He’d have to put in a request. 

Eliot pressed a thumb to Quentin’s bottom lip. “You’re a fucking wet dream come to life.” 

“God.” Quentin rolled his eyes. “You did all the work this time. Like, a lot of the time.”

“Mm, yeah, I did.” Eliot looked pleased with himself. Eliot _frequently_ looked pleased with himself. “But you always make such wonderful noises, and you gobbled down my cock like you couldn’t wait to get it in your mouth. So fucking sexy, baby.” 

“I really couldn’t wait.” He nosed Eliot’s shoulder, smiling, a little shy. Here Eliot was, calling him gorgeous and sexy and all these things that didn’t at all match with Quentin’s vision of himself. Quentin was just… slightly less of a disaster than he was a decade ago. And Eliot had him… well trained, he could say. That’s how Quentin saw it. Eliot hated when Quentin said shit like that, so he kept it to himself in moments where his anxiety wasn’t driving, when he didn’t feel compelled to say all the things about himself he thought were true. And he played along every other time, working toward believing all the things Eliot saw in him. He figured that was a good enough goal—believing Eliot, at least some of the time. Eliot had done the same for him. Fair was fair.

“You seem to like the idea of having Milo over,” Eliot said, his fingers running over Quentin’s back.

“Yeah, I—” Quentin bit at his lip. He’d had the thought before, what it would be like to fuck Milo. Milo was fucking _hot_. And Eliot had added a lot of… ideas to that equation. It made him feel turned on and embarrassed in a way that he liked, in a way that Eliot liked. And if Eliot was in the driver’s seat, if he could plan it and make it happen, Quentin could do it, too—Eliot would take care of him. “—I like it a lot.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Eliot threw a leg over Quentin, and they lay together like that until the stew started to burn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor canonical references to what Eliot suffered as a kid.
> 
> And smut. So smutty. Ta da!

~Eliot~

Eliot was a shameless deviant, and no one would ever know the depths of his depravity. 

It wasn’t the type of perversion Eliot would have expected of himself, however. His family had made it clear that a queer boys like Eliot ended up dying in the gutter, miserable and alone, a victim of their own dirty sins. As a result, that’s sort of what Eliot had expected to happen to him. He’d worked hard at his own self-destruction, pouring alcohol down his throat and having a problematic amount of unprotected sex in his undergraduate years. (He’d graduated to magical forms of protection once he came to Brakebills, and thank the gods for that.) He’d fucked demigods at Encanto Oculto, attended orgies under the influence of drugs that gave him the ability to orgasm for hours, seduced straight boys like it was his paying job and he was going for employee of the month, and consumed more magical hallucinogens than should have been possible for a single human being who wasn’t descended from Bacchus. 

However. No one told him that the heights of his lechery would revolve around a single person in a mostly monogamous, committed relationship. Nay, a committed _marriage_. He would have laughed at the very thought. And yet. Here he was, sitting atop their rickety ladder, watching his husband work in his loose Fillorian trousers and the nearly sheer white shirt he favored in the summertime. He was thinking indecent thoughts about his husband—his nerdy, sweet, sexy, ridiculous husband. Eliot even _jerked off_ thinking about Quentin. See? Fucking _depraved_. He was a slut for domesticity. 

Eliot was a deviant among deviants. The siren call of hearth and home had overtaken the demons of his nature, and all he wanted was the soul and flesh of this one irresistible man. And recently, well, he’d taken a liking to the idea of utterly overwhelming Quentin’s senses with the all the best things about sex—and as a side benefit, watching this very cute boy from the market fuck Quentin silly. Eliot had lied, a little. It was showing off, in a way. But it had to do with showing Quentin off. And he wouldn’t mind touching Milo’s dick. He was only human. 

“God, it’s hot,” Quentin muttered, slipping another few green tiles in place. He picked up a handful of vermilion tiles and wiped the sweat away from his forehead with a damp rag. Quentin was throwing the tiles together randomly today, totally disinterested in putting together a design. It was the day before his birthday, and Milo was supposed to arrive in several hours. A celebration, indeed. 

“Mm, it is,” Eliot agreed. “Super fucking hot.” He was supposed to correct Quentin’s mistakes from up here, but he found it increasingly hard to pay attention as the loose shirt fell over Quentin’s body when he bent down, exposing a strip of his back, tanned and muscular from their years at the mosaic. 

Quentin pulled off his shirt and hung it on the lowest rung of the ladder, apparently unaware that he was slowly killing Eliot. “Should I do like… a color gradient thing?”

“Sure. Why not?” Beads of sweat had collected at the small of Quentin’s back, over his shoulders. Eliot wanted to dive down off of the ladder and lick it all off. “It’s as beautiful as anything else we’ve done, when you think about it. This place doesn’t seem to care about a pattern.”

Quentin looked up at him, pulling his hair back and tying it with one of the braided ribbons Teddy had made for him. “Maybe we could stop early. Go down to the river.”

Eliot grinned. “You’re slacking off, Coldwater. I’m going to have to speak to your manager about your work ethic.” Eliot could honestly give less of a fuck about the mosaic right now. Maybe that was shitty, but after all this time, they’d never gotten any hint of a goddamn key. If Eliot felt like he had more important things going on today, he couldn’t be blamed. Fucking Quentin senseless was absolutely Eliot’s best version of ‘the beauty of all life.’ And bringing their hot friend into the equation seemed like a pressing enough turn of events to warrant an afternoon off. 

“I thought you were my manager.” Eliot loved that fucking bow in his hair. It was insanely cute. He was just… gone on this man. It was a disgrace. And he was so fucking happy.

“Hm, then—as High King—I declare that this is a national Fillorian holiday. And no man may lift a finger to work.”

“Don’t let High King Dickbag or whatever his name is—”

“Cameron. Of Knoxville, Kentucky.”

“Um. That’s—uh—Eliot—”

Eliot smirked. “The High King has no time for useless corrections.”

After Eliot climbed down from the ladder, he walked, hand in hand, with Quentin down to the river. He took his time putting his hands all over Quentin, sluicing water over his skin between kisses, washing his hair as he leaned back against his shoulder, his legs floating, his breathing even. 

***

Eliot had expected Milo might be nervous, but he was surprisingly serene as he stretched out by the fire, his legs nearly touching Quentin’s. Eliot was sitting in Quentin’s lap as Q played with his hair and kissed over the nape of his neck. The night was cloudless, the moon nearly full, the hint of a breeze playing through the treetops above them. The idea of sex had been somewhere in the back of Eliot’s mind, tamped down during their dinner, but it was becoming clearer and more pressing as they sat together, mostly silent, watching the stars rise and listening to the crackle of the fire. Quentin was like he got sometimes—shameless and obvious, utterly unable to tear his lips away from Eliot’s skin, his hands running over Eliot’s legs and up to his waist.

“Ever done anything like this before, Milo?” Eliot asked, voice low, taking Quentin’s hand and tangling their fingers together. Quentin went still, like he was pausing to listen for Milo’s response. 

“Can’t say as I have,” Milo said. His voice was low and husky, the faintest hint of a rasp. Eliot could see, even in the low light, that Milo was watching them, his eyes following Quentin’s hands as they roamed over Eliot, lifting the edge of his shirt, fingertips against bare skin making him shiver. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since we started talking.”

“Have you been touching yourself when you think about it?” Quentin made an embarrassed noise behind him. Eliot would have gone for asking Milo if he’d been jerking it to the thought of railing Quentin, but he knew the terminology would just make Milo confused instead of turned on. Fucking Fillory. Eliot would have to make do. It seemed to be working on Quentin, who had stilled, lips still pressed gently against Eliot’s neck. 

“Yes, I have. Can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Both of you.” Milo shifted forward, and Eliot watched his face, firelight playing over his handsome features. He reached a hand out tentatively, touching Quentin’s leg. Beneath him, Quentin drew in a quick breath. “I don’t know if I’ll be what you want. But I’ll try.”

Eliot saw Milo’s thumb rubbing circles over Quentin’s thigh. He grinned. “Oh, trust me. You’re exactly what we want.” Eliot leaned back and kissed Quentin, teeth clacking, hot and hard. Quentin melted into him, making a pleased sound, even though he was hiding behind his hair and the bulk of Eliot’s body. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d pulled Eliot into his lap—Quentin had made it through dinner just fine, and he’d had a few cups of plum wine. Once they reached the after-dinner portion of their evening, they all knew what was supposed to happen next. Quentin had started blushing once Eliot served the peach tart he’d made, and he’d remained beautifully red-cheeked since then. Eliot could even see it in the firelight. He had wrapped himself around Eliot so he’d have something to hold, skin to press his mouth against, a place to put his hands. 

“Should we…” Milo started, his hand still resting on Quentin’s leg. Oh, he was eager. This promised to be _fun_. 

“Q, darling, what do you think? Should we take the festivities inside? I’ve got our _atmospheric_ spells running. And we can get started with the special one I put together for your birthday.”

Quentin laughed, nuzzling against Eliot’s arm. “Mm, yeah. I think we should. I’m ready. You?” Eliot couldn’t tell if he was looking in Milo’s direction, but he felt Quentin shift behind him and figured he must be. 

“I think so,” Milo said gently. Milo stood and offered Eliot his hand, which was—it was cute. Milo was good and kind, someone more like Quentin and very much _unlike_ any of the men Eliot had brought home all those years ago. Eliot’s tastes hadn’t changed, not exactly. It was more that he’d matured; he’d bound himself to Quentin for the rest of their time here, if not the rest of their lives, and that fact was woven into every choice he made. If he shared anyone with Quentin—if he _shared Quentin_ with anyone—it would have to be someone that made sense with the life they’d built. Milo fit—he was young and gorgeous and warm and smart and deliciously sexy. But the best thing about Milo was that he _very much_ wanted Quentin, and Quentin deserved to be wanted. He deserved everything.

Eliot stood, holding Milo’s calloused hand and pulling Quentin up with him. Quentin made a little yelp—like he was surprised that they’d actually be doing this, even though he’d just agreed they should go inside. Eliot led both of them to the door of the cottage, feeling more like a king than he ever had in present-day Fillory. If he could have gone back in time and told his younger self that he’d have a gorgeous husband that he could talk into moderately kinky sex things with total ease, his younger self would have fucking passed out from shock. He’d never imagined he could have anything. He was told he couldn’t—that he didn’t deserve anything but misery. And here, he had all of this. He had a home.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Eliot said. He’d set up several illumination spells, dim yellow orbs that glowed like gas lamps, and he’d enchanted the air to feel like a cool breeze. 

“Uh yeah.” Quentin dipped his head down and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He untied the ribbon tied around his wrist and pulled his hair back. 

Milo’s eyes went wide, taking it all in. “It’s... so big inside.”

“So I’ve been told,” Eliot said, smirking and kissing Quentin on the temple.

“ _Eliot._ ” Quentin sighed and made a show of being the long suffering husband that he most definitely was. “Um, we’ve been adding onto the expansion spells that keep the same external structure but add, uh, square footage—er, extra space—on the inside. El is really good about adapting his casting so that it works with the other spells and keeps everything in place.” He held onto Eliot’s hand, warm and solid and steadying.

“It’s quite a lovely home.” Milo was peering at their bookshelf, which was filled with little mystery and adventure novels by Fillorian writers. “And you mentioned another bit of magic—”

“Ah yes. The sex magic spell. Should make us able to last for a few rounds, increase stamina and capacity for pleasure.”

“Sounds incredible.” Milo reached out and took Quentin’s hand, pulling him in close and tracing his fingers down Quentin’s arm. Quentin, who Eliot knew was absolutely into this after _copious_ discussion, still looked a bit like a terrified wild animal. But Milo—Milo looked _hungry_ for him, and Jesus, yes, that was really doing it for Eliot.

“Why don’t you kiss him, sweetheart? Show him how delicious you are.” 

Quentin’s gaze flicked over to Eliot and then back to Milo. “Yeah, I—”

Milo didn’t wait for the rest of Quentin’s comment. Instead, he drew Quentin in close and tipped his head back, slotting their lips together and moaning into Quentin’s mouth. Milo pulled the ribbon from Quentin’s hair and let it fall, carding his fingers through the silky strands, pulling his hair back and kissing Quentin’s neck. Quentin was making soft, needy sounds, his body pressing into Milo’s, their legs tangled together where they stood. 

Fuck. This was a fucking excellent decision. Eliot could watch this all damn night. He could really just jerk off to the sounds Quentin made during sex, and he’d probably be completely satisfied with the rendezvous. But. 

He placed his hand in the center of Quentin’s back and kissed down the line of his jaw. Eliot nibbled at his earlobe, nosing along his hairline and pulling his shirt until it came untucked. “You’re so hot, baby. So fucking hot. See how he wants you?”

Quentin made a low choked-off noise. Milo had his shirt halfway up, hands skimming over his abdomen. “I—ah—maybe the spell,” Quentin mumbled. Eliot was impressed he was verbal. 

Milo nodded, and Quentin made another alluring noise, apparently very distracted. Begrudgingly, Eliot took his hands away from his husband and performed the series of tuts he’d pieced together from memory and several old spell books he’d found when traveling, chanting low in Ancient Greek. When he performed the final movement, he felt a cool rush travel through his body, the spell taking hold. He watched as Milo shivered, and Quentin gave him a quick smile, Milo’s mouth still glued to his neck. 

“Okay, boys,” Eliot said. “I love your enthusiasm, but we should move to the bedroom nook. I have _plans_.”

“Oh, yeah,” Quentin said, pulling Milo over to the bed, both of them stumbling across the floor. “We should, I guess—” He started tugging at Milo’s shirt, steadier than Eliot had expected. He had Milo pushed up against the bed, pulling his shirt off and discarding it and immediately getting his mouth on Milo’s chest, tongue laving over his deep pink nipples. 

Eliot watched them, the heat beginning to build low in his hips, his cock twitching as he took in the the way Milo’s hands moved over Quentin’s body almost reverently. Eliot undressed slowly, his body thrumming with a steady, low thrill. Milo was well-muscled from his work, his ass firm and round; Eliot could see the outline of Milo’s erection through the thin, woven fabric of his trousers. Quentin palmed his cock, moaning into Milo’s mouth, reaching out for Eliot and grabbing his hand, pulling him in close. 

“Yes, darling?” Eliot helped Quentin out of his shirt and skimmed his lips over his shoulder, taking in the scent of fresh air and river water and the lavender soap from the market. Quentin didn’t respond—couldn’t, he thought, not now—so Eliot wrapped him up in his arms, bracing him. He watched over Quentin’s shoulder as Milo slipped Quentin’s pants down over his hips, exposing his hard cock, flushed red, precome beading at the tip. He was so fucking beautiful, so stunning, and he belonged to Eliot. Eliot took Quentin by the shoulders, moving him a step back toward the bed and sitting him down. “Sit here, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you. Right, Milo?”

“Yes. We’re going to take good care of you,” Milo said breathily, slipping off the rest of his clothing and sitting next to Quentin, one arm wrapped around his chest.

Eliot watched hungrily as Milo wrapped his fingers around Quentin’s cock, stroking tentatively at first and then firmer. Eliot had failed to asked exactly how much experience Milo had with men, but he seemed sure enough as Quentin leaned back against him, groaning as Milo’s hand moved over his cock. Quentin met Eliot’s gaze, cheeks flushed and gasping, shuddering. 

“Good?” Eliot cast a cushioning spell on the wooden floor, kneeling in front of the bed, right between Quentin’s legs when it took hold. 

“Yeah, good.” Quentin’s fingers found Eliot’s hair, not pulling—just petting through it, soft and slow, sending heated prickles down the column of his neck.

“I’m gonna suck your cock, Q.” Eliot took Quentin’s cock in his hand, squeezing it a bit. 

“Mmm, yeah—okay, that’s—” he murmured, drawing in a sharp breath and shivering as Eliot ran a thumb over the head. 

“Milo, you want to watch?” Eliot’s traced around the head of Quentin’s cock with his tongue, observing the little tremors in Quentin’s thighs.

Milo grinned, fitting his fingers over his own cock. “Yes, so much. I’ve thought about this.” His voice was low, gravely. 

And Eliot—Eliot was already hard, cool air playing over his skin, a hand trailing up Quentin’s leg and grabbing his hip as Eliot took him in his mouth, groaning against the velvet softness of his skin, the salty, musky taste against his tongue. He looked up at Quentin, whose dark-liquid eyes were on his, fingers still playing in his hair. Milo was practically wrapped around him, kissing his neck, the line of his shoulder, burying his face in Quentin’s hair. Quentin looked _gone_ , his lips parted, pupils blown, focused on Eliot like he was the only thing in the world. Eliot sucked him down greedily, taking him all the way to the root, savoring the fullness, his _taste_. Quentin’s hands grasped his hair, pulling, a little harder now, and he moaned against Quentin, glancing up to see his head thrown back, Milo’s lips grazing over his neck, fingers brushing over his hardened nipples. 

Eliot felt _high_ , blissed out on the weight of Quentin’s cock in his mouth, the knowledge that Milo wanted him so badly, that Quentin got to have everything Eliot could give him tonight, despite being a world away from all the things they’d had before, all the things they’d thought they wanted. Eliot was blissed out, cock throbbing inside his trousers. He didn’t want to come just yet, even if it was a multiple-time thing. He had plans. He let himself get lost in the loose, floaty thoughts that came with giving head, focusing in and out on Quentin groaning and tugging at his hair, his cock thrusting forward and hitting the back of Eliot’s throat every so often. He tuned into the sound of skin brushing against skin—Milo stroking himself or maybe Quentin’s hand on Milo’s cock. The thought made him _groan_ , and maybe there was something… strange about that. At the very least, not the thought of an ordinary, workaday husband. But what was marriage to Eliot if it didn’t mean talking Quentin into progressively more adventurous sex? Because Quentin _loved_ being pushed, and Eliot loved doing the pushing. Eliot could hear Quentin talking to Milo somewhere above him. One of Quentin’s hands was still tangled in Eliot’s curls, but he could feel different movements from Quentin’s body, from the bed. Milo groaned, a strangled sound of pleasure, and Eliot knew Quentin really was stroking him now, his clever, strong fingers wrapped around Milo’s thick, heavy cock. He sped up his rhythm, his hand gripping the base of Quentin’s cock, tongue tracing over the line of his shaft and up to the head, over his frenulum, licking gently at his slit. Quentin’s fingers gripped tighter in Eliot’s hair, and he guided Eliot now, bucking into his mouth. Almost as an afterthought, Eliot did the tut that drew lube to his fingers. He looked up at Quentin, saw him kissing Milo, lips and tongue greedy and hot, licking and biting. With one swift movement, he pulled Quentin’s leg over his shoulder, spreading him open and pressing two slicked fingers against his hole, tracing gentle circles around his rim before Quentin relaxed, letting out a muffled moan as Eliot slid one finger into his hole. Quentin was wild with it, fucking into Eliot’s mouth now, Milo abandoned for the time being as Quentin chased his release. 

“I’m so close, El. Please—I’m gonna—” He heard Quentin’s voice from somewhere distant, far away. His thoughts were a trifle slow, but he felt the familiar swell of of Quentin’s cock, the clench of his ass. He sucked harder, taking Quentin all the way to the back of his throat, relishing the salty-alkaline taste as Quentin cried out, gripping Eliot’s hair so tight his scalp hurt, making his body thrum with heat, with longing. Eliot pulled back, mouth open, looking into Quentin’s eyes as he came on Eliot’s tongue, his lips, his chin. Quentin looked at him in _wonder_ , mouth hanging open, and pulled Eliot up to the bed as Eliot disentangled himself from Quentin’s body. “Fuck—holy shit—that was so hot.” 

“You like using my mouth, baby. Gave it to me rough.”

“Fuck, El, yeah. I love it,” Quentin murmured, kissing him and fucking licking him clean, sucking at his lips and tongue. He made soft, sweet sounds as he melted into Eliot, pressing in close to his body, gripping him as they made out like horny high school kids in front of their… _guest_. Quentin might’ve pretended he was _shy_ at dinner, but… really, he just needed to get going, and he was wet and messy and eager.

Eliot felt Milo’s arm around his waist as Quentin sat back on his haunches, hands still running over Eliot’s body. It was strange—unfamiliar lips pressing against his, a hard cock against his thigh that didn’t belong to his husband. It had been a _long_ time, their lives so full of the quest and their family. But now—Milo was moaning into Eliot’s mouth, like he was starving for it. _God_ —this boy was _fun_. A good call. A hand slipped beneath Eliot’s waistband, and he felt two pairs of hands tugging at his trousers, tossing them aside. Quentin’s hand was on his cock—because that’s where Quentin _always_ wanted his hand—and Eliot was trembling with how hard he was. But he wanted—

“Fuck, Q, you’re gonna make me come if you keep that up—”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Milo asked, kissing Eliot again. Strong, solid lips, the gruff touch of his beard. Fuck, he was _hot_.

“Yes.” Eliot groaned—Quentin’s hand was still working over his shaft, thumb brushing over his tip. “I just wanted—wanna watch Milo fuck you,” he said to Quentin, kissing him quickly. “Want to come inside you after that. Think you’ll like it.” Eliot couldn’t be bothered to speak in full sentences, and he was out of fucks to give in that department. “That sound good to you, Q?”

Quentin let go of his cock, and made a sound that was something like a ‘yes.’

“Didn’t hear you, baby. You’re mumbling.”

“Jesus Christ. Eliot, _yes_.” Quentin, frankly, sounded a little _annoyed_. Good.

Eliot squeezed himself at the base of his cock to stave off the building pressure. “And maybe you could just… keep me warm while he fucks you. Yeah?”

“Oh, fuck. Eliot—yeah, okay. I can do that.” Quentin’s eyes went wide, dark and wanting. His _face_ was ridiculously adorable when he wanted to get Eliot’s cock in his mouth. So, pretty much always.

Milo was sitting off to the side, stroking his dick. It really wasn’t a threesome without someone awkwardly jerking it and wondering what to do next. Lucky for Milo, Eliot enjoyed letting everyone know what to do. It wasn’t unlike event planning, he thought. And here was his event. “Let’s get you on your hands and knees,” Eliot said, cupping Quentin’s face.

Quentin, who mostly ignored any request or command in the day to day, just nodded and moved right where Eliot put him, watching him with a vaguely amused, very turned on expression. 

Milo put a hand on Quentin’s hip, poised behind him. He glanced over at Eliot, going still like he was looking for some kind of answer in his expression. A lovely pink flush rose over his chest, and he licked his lips. “I’ve—it’s been a long time.”

“Mm.” Eliot nodded. He should have _asked_ Milo about his history. “You alright?” It was a little odd to pause after the party had already started—with everyone fully nude and sporting a hard dick. Eliot had been through worse awkwardness, and there was nothing he excelled at more than smoothing things over.

“Yes. Just.” He ran his fingers over Quentin’s back, drawing his hand back again to cup his ass. And fuck, if Eliot kept watching that, he was going to get very distracted. “I don’t know if I’m tremendously skilled.”

Ah. “Darling, we’re delighted to have you here. And unlike most other sexual encounters you may have had, we’ve got the added support of my spell. That means if you shoot off early, we can just go again. And believe me, it _will_ be good.” Eliot reached down and tugged at Quentin’s hair, making him look up. “Quentin likes nothing more than being _used_ , and I know he’s going to make the prettiest sound when you get inside him. He’s been thinking about you, too. Haven’t you, Q?”

Quentin’s pink lips are parted, and he looks just like he did the first day Eliot saw him—sweet and dazed and a little awestruck. “Yeah, _fuck_. Yes, I have. Jesus Christ, _Eliot_ ,” Quentin groused. 

“Milo’s going to do a great job, don’t you think?”

Quentin huffed, and Eliot let go of his hair. “For the record, Milo, I’m grumbling at _Eliot_ because he’s _irritating_. I am obviously, like, super into this.”

Eliot grinned and did a showy little tut that drew the small glass jar of lube he’d refined from several readily available Fillorian oils. The jar landed on the small of Quentin’s back, right above his lovely ass. Quentin hissed at the contact of the cold glass and groaned, a wholly frustrated sound. “ _Eliot_. Jesus.”

“I’m just helping Milo. He didn’t consider that he’d have to go from zero to hero so quickly.” 

“What does that mean?” Milo quirked an eyebrow at Eliot, but he reached for the jar, opening it and looking appreciatively at its contents. 

“Not important,” Eliot said. Quentin let out a quick little laugh, and Eliot tugged at his hair again. 

Milo had slicked his fingers, examining the oil. “You could sell this at the market.”

“Mosaic experts and fine lube makers,” Quentin said.

“Quiet, you—”

“You know how to shut me up, El,” Quentin said. “So maybe you should do that—”

“I’ll take my time—thank you. Your job is to be still and let me chat with Milo.” Eliot smiled, as dignified as he could be with his dick out. “Milo, you can get Quentin ready with your fingers now.”

Milo looked at him, eyes a little wild. “Yeah?”

“He _loves_ it. I can make him come just like that.”

Quentin let out a ragged moan, his back arching. “Yeah, come on. Do it before—my fucking joints lock up. I’m not young anymore—”

Milo laughed, still a little unsure, it seemed, but he pressed his fingers to Quentin’s hole. Eliot couldn’t see it all from where he was, but he saw Quentin arch his back again, pushing back against Milo and panting. 

“Go on, get one inside of him,” Eliot said. 

Milo’s breath hitched in his chest, and he pressed inward with his finger. Eliot watched Quentin; the muscles in his back were trembling just a little as Milo’s finger slipped inside of him. Eliot stroked Quentin’s hair, watching as Milo as he drizzled more oil over his fingers, adding a second, wringing out a delighted groan from Quentin. 

“Come on, El. Wanna keep you warm. Please,” Quentin murmured, his body fucking back reflexively on Milo’s fingers. His mouth was pink and open.

“Yeah? You’re gonna be good and keep still?” God, this man. He couldn’t have made up anyone better than Quentin if he tried. 

“Yeah, yeah. I can be. Just—please. I’ve been thinking about this so fucking much. I need it. Please.” 

“Fuck. Okay, baby.” Eliot shifted on the bed and pressed his cock between Quentin’s waiting lips, and he was good—so good. Even with Milo’s fingers working diligently inside of him, Quentin’s mouth was open and soft for Eliot, his velvety tongue welcoming. He didn’t make a move to lick or suck Eliot—just staying still, how Eliot liked. His cock was warm and wet inside Quentin’s mouth. A delectable, low-level thrum ran through him. He could be patient and draw it out—his favorite thing—he loved settling into Quentin’s hand or his mouth or his ass and holding himself there, moving just a little, tightening that coil inside of him just a little at a time until he couldn’t bear it.

Eliot watched Milo as he added a third finger, gasping as his hand moved, rocking into Quentin. “He feels so soft inside.”

“And you’re getting him so wet. You’re doing such a good job. He likes it so much.”

“Good _Gods_ ,” Milo said, panting as he worked his fingers in and out, watching them disappear inside Quentin.

“I think he’s ready for you to fuck him. He knows how to take a cock,” Eliot said. Quentin moaned against his cock, maybe a bit indignant, but he couldn’t exactly tell anyone his issues at the moment. 

“Are you certain? I don’t want to hurt him.”

Quentin groaned against Eliot’s dick, sending vibrations to his core. Eliot thrust against Quentin’s throat, just a bit.

Oh, sweet Milo. He needed to trust his elders. Eliot _knew_ he was ready. He’d been fucking this man half the years that Milo had been alive. But still—he could give Milo the assurance he needed. “Trust me. He’s craving it. Twist your fingers and feel how relaxed you’ve made him.”

Milo did as Eliot instructed—honestly, an excellent trait in a guest star. “He is—I can feel it?”

“Good. You did so good, Milo.” He pushed Quentin’s hair back, marveling at how flushed and pink his face was, even up to his forehead. “Sweetheart, are you ready for Milo’s cock?” Quentin looked up at him with those dark eyes, and he made an affirmative sound from the back of his throat. 

Without another word, Milo lined himself up behind Quentin, the head of his cock wet from being on edge for a long time now. Milo’s breathing _stopped_ as he pressed forward but into Quentin’s ass. Eliot watched as the head slipped in, his own cock pulsing periodically as it rested against Quentin’s tongue. Milo’s adorable blush deepened, and he gripped Quentin’s hips hard enough to bruise as he sank in just the littlest bit more. He was panting and shivering, pushing in further. Quentin made a shocked little sound against Eliot’s cock, sending another hot jolt of need through his core. Quentin had a hard time staying quiet, even with his mouth full, his lips stretched over Eliot’s shaft.

Milo dripped more lube over his cock, grunting as his hips stuttered forward. He reached down and palmed Quentin’s cock, sending more tremors through the muscles in Quentin’s back. “Gods,” he said, voice rough. “Oh, my _Gods_. Oh—so _good_.” His eyes were on the base of his cock, and he sighed and groaned as he pushed, finally, all the way inside, buried to the hilt. His breath was coming fast; his cheeks were so red they looked slapped. 

“Tell me how he feels,” Eliot said. He adjusted himself so that he slipped a little more of his cock into Quentin’s mouth, relishing the slight movement and the frisson of pleasure it sparked, low in his hips. It was such a pretty sight, watching Milo, lean and muscled and young, absolutely _quaking_ with lust for Quentin. Quentin, who belonged to Eliot, all sweet and stretched out for both of them.

Milo looked fucking _wrecked_ , eyes dark, his hands running over Quentin’s ass and down over his thighs, like he couldn’t _believe_ he was here, that he was doing _this_. “He feels— _oh_ —” His hips jerked a little as he bent forward and moved, inching a bit _deeper_. “—so _hot_. Gods, burning… hot. And so smooth—tight— _ahh_!” Milo sounded pained as he rocked back the barest bit and crammed himself back inside. 

Eliot _knew_ how good it was, how easy Quentin’s body welcomed him in every time. He could almost feel, physically, how much Quentin wanted it. And he was _letting_ Milo have this, intentionally, something that was so precious, something that was his and only his. That thought was likely problematic, but fuck, he was here in what was basically a medieval society, just one where he was allowed to have a husband—thank the gods for that blessing. So, yeah, maybe it was inappropriate to think of _sharing_ his husband, renting him out for a night while Eliot enjoyed the view. But it was sort of in line with the whole theory of marriage in Fillory. Besides, Quentin might roll his eyes at Eliot, but he’d think it was hot. 

“He likes it a little rough,” Eliot said. “Show him how strong you are, Milo. Go on, honey. Quentin is _so_ hard for you.” That should do it. Eliot hadn’t coached anyone in a long while—such was married life—but he remembered that sometimes, a nervous boy just needed a _little encouragement_.

Milo looked at him, wide-eyed, as he pulled back and thrust inside again, making a soft, choked sound when he did. He started fucking into Quentin, slow and steady, gasping like he might go off at any second. Eliot should let him know again that it was _fine_ if he came right away

Eliot dropped a hand to Quentin’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, tenderly. Quentin tilted his head up, his deep-set eyes on Eliot, his mouth wet and warm around his cock. His body shook a little each time Milo plunged into him. His cheeks were bright pink, his hair tangled and hopelessly mussed. After all this time, Quentin still had no idea what he did to Eliot.

“You love this, don’t you? I knew you would,” he said, softly, raking his fingers through Quentin’s hair, loosening the tangles. “You’re doing so well. So fucking hot. Your jaw’s going to hurt after this. You’ll feel it tomorrow.” 

Quentin’s brows quirked together and he whimpered as Milo fucked into him harder, making _ah-uh-uh_ noises in a cute little rhythm. Eliot flashed a smile. “I think he’s about to come inside you, baby. You want that, huh? Then, you know I’m going to have to fuck you, too.”

Quentin whined against Eliot, eyelashes fluttering. Milo was louder now, his guttural groans and the slick sounds of his cock driving into Quentin mixing obscenely. Eliot knew that he could come in a few short moments if he started fucking into Quentin’s mouth. He could do the spell and get him nice and relaxed, come down his throat or all over his lips. But no. He had other ideas. 

“Milo is way too out of it to get you to come. That’s my job. Okay, baby?” Eliot knew Quentin would tell him he was _talking too much_ , but Quentin couldn’t respond right now, and Eliot was planning to take advantage of it. He could see a bit of that impudence in his expression, even with his _dick_ in Quentin’s _mouth_. It was sort of strange how hot that was, but Eliot had long ago stopped questioning where ‘Quentin’ and ‘hot’ intersected in his mind. It had all escalated into a massive jumble, starting with that pinpoint of a moment in time when Quentin had stumbled out of the bushes and looked up at him, all pouty and confused and adorable. “You look like you wanna say something, sweetheart. Cat got your tongue?” 

Quentin actually _rolled his eyes_ , but it was right at that moment that Milo started jerking hard, slamming into Quentin. He let out a long, low keening sound against Eliot’s cock. Eliot shuddered, looking up to watch Milo. A look of pleasure so intense it seemed painful washed over his face, piercing blue eyes closing as he snapped his hips, crying out as he came, hips pressed flush to Quentin’s ass. God, but they looked pretty. Eliot almost couldn’t bear it. Milo pulled away with a hiss, grabbing one of the cups of water Eliot had left on the windowsill. If anyone came by—they wouldn’t, not a mile outside of the village—but if they did, they’d get an eyeful. Eliot was pulling out of Quentin’s mouth and dragging him up in a greedy, sloppy kiss, taking in his own faint taste on Quentin’s tongue. 

“You were so fucking hot, baby,” Eliot said, holding Quentin’s chin. He kissed him again, thrusting his tongue between his lips. And Quentin—well, Quentin had been muted before, but now he was groaning shamelessly. Eliot got a look at his gorgeous cock, hard and red and pressed against his abdomen. And he moved Quentin right back to his hands and knees. Eliot had a vision here, and it was one he needed to see through. 

“Oh my God—I’m _tired_ —”

“Tonight is not for being lazy.” He was lucky Eliot was so patient, or he would have actually moved to the village _years_ ago. Okay, he definitely wouldn’t have done it. But he would have threatened it much more realistically.

“ _Jesus_.”

“What’s Jesus?” Milo asked, voice muffled. His arm was thrown across his face.

“Like Umber, but like. More than slightly less interesting,” Quentin said, not missing a beat.

“Long story,” Eliot added. He dipped down and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s lower back. In the spirit of consolation, Eliot dug his thumbs into the spots where he knew Quentin’s hips got sore, pressing in until they released. Eliot was feeling the slightest bit evil, so he reached around and ghosted his hand over Quentin’s cock, which was hot and hard and glossy with precome. Eliot swiped his thumb over the head, moving his fingers back down his shaft. He watched appreciatively as Quentin arched his back and quaked against the bed. 

“Eliot—I’m _so close_ —please, just let me—”

Eliot caught Milo perking up out of the corner of his eye. Good—let him enjoy the show. Eliot always enjoyed constructing a good performance. And Quentin was _long_ past the point of being squeamish. When he was like this, he was absolutely debauched. It was delightful. “Can you hang on a little bit, baby? Just wanna enjoy you.”

“Fine,” Quentin said, sounding _annoyed_.

Eliot considered himself to be something of an expert at sex. He’d really had quite a lot of it, and no one had ever registered a complaint. Quentin certainly hadn’t. But as he looked down at Quentin, spreading his cheeks apart to look at him where Milo had gotten him so wet—it made him feel greedy, stricken, out of his mind. “Fuck, baby. You have no idea how hot you are. Do you feel good? Feel like you want me inside?”

“Wrung out, but in a good way.” Quentin looked back at him with those dark eyes, blinking prettily. “Always want you inside me. Thought you knew that by now.”

“You’ve mentioned.” He dipped two fingers indie of Quentin immediately, just to feel how soaked he was. He groaned, fucking into him with his fingers—two and then three. For someone who should have been completely fucked out, Quentin was pushing back on Eliot’s fingers with gusto, making a mewling sound that signaled he was close to coming. So close. And that just wouldn’t do. 

“Oh fuck—just like that—”

Eliot smirked and drew his fingers away, admiring the slip of Milo’s come, a little trill of delight rising through him. He was going to feel so good. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

“El, what the fuck—“

Milo laughed. Eliot could feel him watching, could see him playing with his cock out of the corner of his eye. “He sounds frustrated.”

“Oh, he is. But believe me, it’s going to be worth it. I’m going to get him to come on my cock.” Eliot ran a hand over Quentin’s ass, thumbing at his hole again, watching him shiver as he circled it over and over again. God, Milo had come _so much_. The other times they’d done this—God, Eliot didn’t even like to remember it. He couldn’t, really, in a concrete kind of way. There’d been a good deal of Fillorian moonshine and wine involved. But this he would definitely remember. 

Eliot kept dipping the tip of his thumb inside, just admiring Quentin—his smooth skin, the firmness of his little ass, those strong thighs. And Eliot just wanted _everything_ , all of it. Fuck it. He was going for broke. “Wanna eat you out, taste you,” he said, voice low and soft. His whole body was tingling with the thought.

“Oh—oh my God—yeah—” Quentin looked back at him again, neck turned at an awkward angle. But Eliot knew—he wanted to see him do it. Eliot spread his cheeks again, and keeping his eyes, locked with Quentin’s he dove down and pressed his lips there, licking and groaning, loud and open-mouthed as the sharp, musky taste took over his senses. He tongued over the puckered rim, spreading him apart wider and working his tongue inside as far as he could. Quentin was whimpering and pushing back against Eliot’s mouth, babbling nonsensically. In the background, Eliot could hear the _brush brush brush_ of Milo’s hand against his cock. Yes. Let him enjoy it. God knows that Eliot was. They this this, well, a hell of a lot. But usually as foreplay—Eliot didn’t think he’d been so open, so slack. And his taste, that essential part of him, was mixed with Milo. It was so incredibly fucking hot that Eliot thought he might lose his goddamn mind. 

Quentin was still babbling, but some of the words came through as Eliot worked his tongue into him. “Oh—oh _fuck_ —El, I’m so close—God, just put your dick in me if that’s what you want—” All the words came out in a rush. 

Eliot kept working at him with his tongue, riding the pulsing waves of pleasure. Just as Quentin’s breath hitched and started coming faster, Eliot pulled away and grabbed at the jar of lube, dripping it over his cock and pushing against Quentin right away, the head popping in with ease. Quentin was already fucking back onto him, trying to take more. “Okay, sweetheart, there you are. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, his voice thin. “Want it.”

“Think you can come with just my cock inside you? Or Milo can jack you off while I fuck you, and you can come whenever you want.”

“Oh, fuck. Just—oh my God—just fuck me—”

“That wasn’t exactly an answer, darling.”

“Just—”

“Okay, okay.” Eliot thrust into him, sinking in all the way to the hilt with one movement. He groaned and grabbed the dip of Quentin’s hip—it was so beautiful; he was so fucking beautiful. The burning hot clutch of him was dizzying; it usually took a bit more work to get a cock the size of Eliot’s all the way inside anything, but Quentin was slippery and hot and welcoming. God, was there something wrong with him—loving this as much as he did? Maybe. Eliot didn’t care. It was filthy-dirty-hot, and the _sound of it_ , so _wet_. Eliot drew back and plunged into him again, hips snapping as he grunted and fucked harder, faster. “Oh, Q. Oh—oh my God. Holy fuck, that’s… incredible. Baby, oh _baby_ —it’s so good.”

“Eliot,” he groaned, totally wrecked. “El— _harder_ —”

Eliot was—oh God, totally out of his mind, fucking into him hard and relentless, his vision sparking at the edges, fingers digging into Quentin’s hips. Milo—bless him—sidled up to Quentin and took his cock in hand, jacking him off, fast and efficient—none of Eliot’s finesse. It appeared that Quentin wasn’t going to lodge a formal complaint—he was fucking back on Eliot’s length and thrusting forward into the slicked grip of Milo’s large hand, goading Eliot to fuck him harder, to come inside of him. It took maybe ten good strokes from Milo, and Quentin was coming, clenching hard against Eliot’s cock and sobbing, still thrusting into his hand even after he’d come on their coverlet. Eliot almost came with him, but he staved it off, yearning to stay inside him, to drag it out, keep him begging. He closed his eyes and listened to the wrung-out moans falling from Quentin’s lips, the sound of his cock sliding inside of him, working faster now, more desperate. 

The nape of his neck prickled and went hot; pressure built inside his core, heat spreading from his hips, down his thighs, centered on the nexus of his cock. The coil inside of him tightened until he was crazed with it, balls drawing up, his cock aching hard and radiating with pleasure so intense that he cried out, strangled and desperate. He drove into Quentin with increasing force, making the need for release an almost palpable thing. Quentin looked back over his shoulder, hair falling in his face, dark eyes locked on his, more beautiful than any man Eliot had ever seen. He’d come inside Quentin—God, he didn’t want to do the math, but it was a _lot_ after over a decade of fucking. And still, Eliot was always shocked at how good it was—how soft and hot and tight he was inside, how he whimpered and clutched at the blankets, how his eyes went wide and lovely, his lips kiss-bitten and rosy. And this time, with Quentin’s body so well-fucked and his knees trembling, it was even more thrilling. Eliot cried out, a stuttered sound of relief and bliss, as he bucked hard, burying himself deep inside his husband’s ass, his cock throbbing and pulsing and filling him. Eliot collapsed against Quentin’s back, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him down on the bed alongside him. He couldn’t help but take Quentin in his arms, throwing a leg over his hip and kissing him hard. 

“Baby, that was—fuck, you’re breathtaking,” Eliot said, nuzzling against his hair, taking in the scent of his salty sweat. Quentin was everything Eliot had always loved about men—strong, lean lines and firm muscle, his body dappled with dark hair, strong jaw covered in light stubble. And at thirty-seven—or close to it—he was still so _pretty_. Maybe a few extra wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but if anything, they made him more enchanting. When he used words like ‘enchanting’ in Quentin’s presence, he rolled his eyes and acted like Eliot was absolutely _ridiculous_ , like anyone would _ever_ think such a nice thing about him. Eliot told him anyway. Even when he was snarky and sharp and biting—maybe especially then—Eliot was lovestruck, a fool for this man. 

Quentin huffed. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”

Milo had inched over again, slinging an arm around Quentin’s waist and pressing his lips to Quentin’s neck. “But you looked so fetching,” Milo murmured. “You feel that?”

Quentin gasped as Milo pressed into his back. “Oh, fuck, yeah, I do.” Quentin tilted his head back and fit his lips against Milo’s, whining, open-mouthed and sloppy.

That big hand resting on the muscles of Quentin’s abdomen... it was disarming. Eliot felt a little unhinged as he watched Milo brush Quentin’s hair aside, licking and biting at his neck. Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin’s as Milo began moving against Quentin’s ass, his cock settled into the sex-slicked crevice. 

“See how hot you are, baby?” Eliot’s hand traced down Quentin’s torso, trailing over Milo’s fingers and finding Quentin’s already stiffening cock. Ah, sex magic. It should have been Eliot’s secondary discipline. He gave Quentin a few experimental strokes, his thumb brushing over the sensitive underside of his tip.

Quentin cried out, an almost pained sound. “El—oh fuck—I can’t believe I’m hard again. I’m going to—to like—pass out from sex.”

“Mm, that’s my birthday present for you, darling.” He pressed his lips to Quentin’s forehead, still stroking him, even as he whined helplessly. “You wanna fuck Milo after he comes on your back? Or maybe he wants to put that nice cock between your thighs. Milo?”

Milo gasped and nodded, and Quentin leaned into Eliot’s shoulder, blushing hard. But he let Eliot lift his leg and adjust him so that Milo settled his cock just beneath Quentin’s balls. Eliot summoned lubed with a flick of his hand and drizzled it over Milo’s shaft. Milo gasped as they adjusted, Quentin’s legs clasped tight so that Milo could fuck between his oiled thighs, his cock grazing over Quentin’s balls, the head peaking out with each thrust. Fuck, that was a _sight_ —Quentin grunting and feverishly fucking into Eliot’s hand, Milo’s body snapping forward and chasing release, his arms wrapped around Quentin’s lithe body. Eliot’s cock started to wake up again from just watching their faces as they fucked. Milo told Quentin how lovely he was, how good he felt—nothing more sophisticated than that, repeating on a loop. From the sounds Quentin was making—quick, breathy _nah-nah-nah_ noises as Milo rutted against his ass and thighs—Eliot knew he was fueled by the praise, even if he wouldn’t accept it in daylight hours. 

“I’m—oh— _close_ —” Milo bit at Quentin’s shoulder and came again, shoved between Quentin’s thighs, spilling over the front of his legs. Milo’s body went lax, his breathing ragged and exhausted. He kissed over the line of Quentin’s shoulder, trailing his fingers over the length of his arm.

“You liked that, didn’t you? You’re so hard,” Eliot said. He dragged his fingers through Milo’s come and drew it gently over Quentin’s cock, soliciting a shiver and a choked-off groan.

“Yeah—fuck. That was good. God, so fucking good.” Quentin rolled toward Milo and pulled him into a kiss. He made sweet sounds, breathing into Milo’s mouth. 

Eliot was blissed out, running his fingers over Quentin’s back, listening to the sound of their kissing, the sweet, gentle way Quentin told Milo how hot he was, how good he’d made it for them. Eliot chuckled a bit when Quentin nicely asked if he could _please fuck Milo_ , telling him that if he wanted that, he’d make it feel so nice. He watched with tired interest, but interest all the same, as Quentin got Milo on his stomach and slowly opened him on his fingers, taking his time to get him ready, telling him how amazing he felt, how much Quentin wanted it. He moved closer, lying on his side and stroking his cock as he watched them, his heart rate quickening as Quentin finally lined himself up and slipped inside Milo with an awed groan. It was mesmerizing, watching him slide in and out, the sounds of panting and rhythmic-sloppy. fucking filling the room. Eliot had half a thought to get his cock into Quentin again while he was fucking Milo, but that was really a lot better in porn than it was in real life. He thought he had maybe one or two more rounds in him—even if the spell could make him last all night, it was only good for his dick and not the rest of him. So he stroked himself lazily, watching Quentin as his chest flushed and his cries grew desperate. He bucked into his hand and came, watching Quentin as he shouted and crammed his cock inside Milo, calling out his name and shuddering with relief. 

They rested for a while after that, trading lazy kisses and soft touches. It took a while to escalate again, and things started to blur in his mind as his thoughts became hazy and floaty. He knew he came again with Milo’s lips wrapped around his cock—a treat, since Milo had really been just for Quentin. And he knew that after they’d slept for a little while, Quentin woke up, hard and insistent, begging to fuck Eliot. They’d both been lazy about it, lying side by side, Eliot’s leg thrown back over Quentin’s as he entered him, his breath catching and brushing hot over Eliot’s ear. Milo was asleep next to them, so Quentin fucked Eliot slow, staying as quiet as he could, his fingers digging into Eliot’s arms, as Eliot jerked off, biting his lip as he came. He thought he’d woken up sometime after that to see Milo holding Quentin down and rutting against him, their cocks pressed together. It could have been a dream by that point—he wasn’t entirely sure. But it was fucking hot, so he added it to his mental compendium of the evening for… future reference. 

Milo left early the next morning for the village, waving at them as they lay tangled together in their bed. 

“We should clean the sheets,” Eliot said, playing with Quentin’s hair. 

“We spelled them clean.” 

“Not the same. We shouldn’t be lazy.” Eliot yawned and closed his eyes, his mouth pressed against Quentin’s cheek. 

“I very much think we _should_ be lazy. It’s my birthday.”

Eliot laughed. “Oh, yeah. It is, isn’t it? Happy birthday.” He pulled Quentin into his arms and peppered his face with kisses as he laughed, still too tired to fully open his eyes. 

“I love you,” he murmured. He mouthed at Eliot’s neck. 

“You should,” Eliot said. 

“I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr at @hoko-onchi-writes.


End file.
